


The Cartography of the Wreck

by berhanes (sqvalors)



Series: sorry about the blood in your mouth [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, First War with Voldemort, Graphic Description of Injuries, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Remus Lupin, lots of hurt and minimal comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-14
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-05-13 16:56:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5710000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sqvalors/pseuds/berhanes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants and he can't keep wanting. He should've known years ago that everything he had was built on a floodplain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cartography of the Wreck

**Author's Note:**

> Initially inspired by the Wolf Larsen song 'If I Be Wrong', which you should definitely listen to for added anguish. There's also some shameless stylistic influences that are really not hard to place, because I am nothing if not predictable.

_why does tragedy exist?_  
_because you are full of rage._  
_why are you full of rage?_  
_because you are full of grief._  
  
Anne Carson - 'Grief Lessons: Four Plays By Euripides'

 

 **viii.**  
"I love you." A lifeline thrown out after a shipwreck. Sirius has his hands braced hard against the tabletop to stop himself shaking. "I thought that was enough. It used to be enough."

It sounds trite and Remus wants to say so, wants to hurl another plate across the kitchen until it shatters into shards too small to find, but he doesn't. Anger wraps hot fingers around the base of his skull and squeezes. The late October sun tints the room orange and he thinks that's perfect, too fucking perfect, to have the room lit like it's burning.

"I thought you had Order business to attend to," He says, and he looks at Sirius long enough to see his face fracture.

The front door slams and Remus feels it reverberate through his entire body. He feels vacant, like Sirius has hollowed him out and left him to rot. Maybe he has, he thinks. Maybe Sirius won't come back. The thought stings, but Remus swallows it down and locks it away. The real pain, the pain that shatters him like glass - that comes later.

 

 **vii.**  
At night, curled facing the wall, Remus wonders if he hasn't brought this on himself. Foolish of him really, to think that something like him would get away with finding his own patch of light and keeping it, no matter how hard he digs his nails in. Maybe this is how they were always meant to end up. He listens to Sirius breathing across the gulf between them and twists the bedsheet between his fingers as if to wring some sense out of it.

He wants and he can't keep wanting. He should've known years ago that everything he had was built on a floodplain.

There's an ache behind his ribcage that started in sixth year and bled into his system like a sickness. It blossomed when Sirius looked at him, when Sirius touched him simply because he wanted to and could. Beautifully flawed, searching for someone to pour affection into and finding Remus so readily empty. The feeling has always come sharp but lately Remus can't stand it. He wants to push the hurt outwards, show Sirius the mess he's made of him. He wants to roll over and pull him to his chest with grasping fingers, but Sirius won't touch him anymore and Remus doesn't blame him.

Sirius' breathing falters and Remus holds his own until the rhythm settles again. He still feels like he's suffocating, long after he exhales.

 

 **vi.**  
Remus surrenders when Sirius kisses him with lips that taste of whiskey and blood and something like an apology on his tongue. He doesn't question the bruises he drops his mouth to, or the scars he doesn't remember. It's not like Sirius would answer.

Remus lets Sirius undress him and feels loathing rise like bile in his throat - so much for resolve, so much for self-respect, so much for the vows he made when Sirius wouldn't even look at him. He's not convinced he wants to look at him now, but Remus will do what he's always done and take everything he's offered with upturned palms. Sirius whispers _please_ against his pulse and Remus feels like he's drowning. He marks a trail down Sirius' body, mouth pressing prayers into his skin; this is how I've loved you, this is how you've let me. Here and here and here. 

 

 **v.  
** Sirius is reading the _Prophet_ \- Remus watches him across the table, all slender wrists and tapered fingers and darting eyes. It's stolen moments like this that Remus will keep close, the minutes he spends watching Sirius and expecting no acknowledgement in return. Sirius can command the attention of an entire room within seconds if he tries, but he's never had to try with Remus. It's sickening, really, Remus thinks. Twenty-one and just as bewitched as he had been at sixteen when Sirius still looked him in the eye.

Sirius frowns at a headline and plucks his cigarette from between chapped lips. He breathes a billow of grey before inhaling it through his nose in that fluid way Remus has never mastered and never will.

"I should be heading out."

Remus feels himself tense, every nerve in his body lit up. He ignores the desperation climbing his spine and then nods once. Doesn't question the abrupt way Sirius drops the paper. It lands across a drop of spilled coffee, and Remus watches the stain blossom.  "Right."

Sirius scrapes his chair across the tiles and heads into the hall, and just like that he begins to pack. He doesn't meet Remus' eye. Remus sits in the kitchen, listening to his movements, before trailing after him. He leans against the doorframe of their bedroom and watches Sirius cram essentials into a rucksack. He thinks, _we weren't supposed to be like this._ He thinks, _look at me look at me why won't you fucking look at me._ He thinks, _this is how i lose you._

 

 **iv.  
** The basement is cold when Remus comes to. He lies still and tries to focus, times his breathing with the dripping of a badly-fitted water pipe to distract himself from the burning in his muscles. Inhale exhale: his face aches, the product of concrete walls and too much force. Inhale exhale: the taste of rust clouds his mouth. Inhale exhale: Sirius is there, offering a dressing gown and whispering comforts into his sweat-damp hair and reminding him that he's safe and solid and allowed to breathe. He's hooking an arm under Remus' shoulder like this is nothing and Remus supposes that by this point it is. He leans into him, biting back a yelp of pain as he gets to his feet, and lets Sirius lead him back up to the flat.  

"I don't think the Full has been this hard on you for a while," Sirius says, between clotting charms. The bathroom light is dimmed and Remus sits on the edge of the bath and stares at a spot of lino, applying pressure to a jagged tear curving around his shoulder and tapering over his collarbone. Sirius wets a flannel and tilts Remus' chin to wipe at a graze sitting on the curve of his cheekbone, frowning. "You didn't do much damage to yourself, though. Just the shoulder one that'll scar I think."

Remus grits his teeth even as he feels the salve start to work. Sirius, with his fingers still braced along his jaw, grips a little tighter. "Will you look at me?"

He thinks about the bruises etching themselves into his bones and the ache settling deeper than muscle. He thinks about how the man tending his wounds is the man holding him together is the man who might be trying to take him apart. And then Remus shifts his gaze. For a moment, Sirius looks surprised. The pressure of his thumb on Remus' chin softens.

Later, after a shower that nearly scalds the skin off his back, Remus finds Sirius reading letters from the Order and pretends he doesn't notice the way he folds them so the contents can't be seen. He tells himself he's imagining it, that it's only right that Sirius is vigilant. Remus ignores the whining, childish voice that says _you can't think that of me you can't think i would do that to you, not now._ He ignores the doubt settling in his gut, heavy as lead.

  
  
**iii.**  
There's the telltale snap of someone apparating and Remus jolts awake, hand groping for the cold side of the bed instinctively before he remembers - two weeks. One unauthorised letter from Andromeda assuring him Sirius has not yet been blown to smithereens or hexed beyond recognition, but no word from the man himself. Remus curls his fingers around his wand and pads bleary-eyed towards the living room.

Sirius is propping himself against the mantelpiece. He smiles jaggedly and exhales a small, humourless laugh.  "Lucky I didn't splinch myself." His face is sallow, eyes like bruises standing stark against his skin.

The first thing Remus sees is the blood. Sirius' hands are covered in it - thick and dark and congealing on his skin, his shirt, the sleeves of his jacket. Remus crosses the room in seconds. "What the fuck did you do?" He prises Sirius' shaking hands away to see the damage and finds a cut four inches long and god knows how deep scored angrily through the softness above his hipbone. "Sirius what the fuck did you do?"

"Caught the edge of a hex."

"And no one fixed this?"

"It killed someone."

Remus doesn't ask, can't afford to ask who. "I'm asking you why you had to apparate with an open wound."

Sirius stares beyond Remus' shoulder, steely eyes settling nowhere. Remus feels blood seep between his fingers and finds an answer in the silence. Sirius has always been stubborn, volatile, liable to get himself hurt by crossing the wrong line. At school it got him detentions scrubbing silverware - in war it could get him killed. Nobody from the Order patched him up because he didn't give them a chance. Remus stares at the darkness blooming on Sirius' shirt and grips his wand. They've done this so many times before.

 

 **ii.**  
The flat is cold and damp, and the coffee table breaks within an hour of moving in - Sirius blames Peter's bumbling, James blames Sirius' ridiculous boots and inability to judge how much weight furniture can support - but everything works and everything is theirs. It feels good, looking at this corner of London and naming it _theirs._ Remus is still holding the word on his tongue long after the others have gone. 

He's standing in front of a newly stocked bookcase when Sirius leaves the kitchen and wraps soapy hands around his waist from behind, threading their fingers together. "I see you've alphabetised everything, then."

"Mmm." Remus leans into him. "Left a shelf for you to use and ultimately abuse, though. Your heathen, un-catalogued ways can run riot all they like."

Sirius' hands slip under Remus' shirt, fingers skimming the sliver of skin above his jeans. "Excellent, a whole shelf of my own. How thoughtful of you."

Remus grins. He turns to catch Sirius' mouth with his own, smudges his thumb across one of those high, patrician cheekbones. Sirius tastes of coffee and ash. When he knots his fingers in Remus' shirt and steps backwards, inviting, Remus follows.

Their bed is an unmade mess of half-straightened sheets and bare pillows. As he's pulling Sirius' shirt over his head and nudging him backwards onto the mattress, Remus thinks it's probably for the best. Sirius drags him in by the belt-loops and grins, wicked and quick, as Remus tries to catch his balance. "Swept off your feet again, Lupin?" 

Remus lands with a hand either side of Sirius' head. "Always," he says,  _a_ _lways,_ like it's a punch line and not something dredged up from the deepest part of himself. He knows the corners and hollows of Sirius' body as well as his own, would recognise the grooves of his ribs with his eyes closed. He threads his fingers through Sirius' hair, anchored at the nape of his neck, and kisses him hard. Pushes his knee between Sirius' thighs then rolls his hips down just enough to earn a reaction; Sirius makes the smallest of noises low in his throat and Remus swallows it whole. 

 

 **i.**  
New Years Eve 1977 finds all four of them spread out in James' living room, surrendered by Mr. and Mrs. Potter only because they're spending the New Year at a dinner party. Sirius had insisted on playing the Ramones record Remus had got him for Christmas and by half eleven they're already on the third play through. Peter is laid out on his back by the fire, a near empty bottle clasped loosely in one hand, gesturing to James with the other about something Remus didn't catch. Remus hasn't caught most of the conversation - he can feel Sirius' eyes burning needle points into his skin and he doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of meeting them.

"And then, Pete listen, then _I_ said, well-" James stops abruptly, derailed by a glance at the mantel clock. He waves his arm around as if conducting from the armchair he's sprawled across, "Hey, it's almost midnight! I hope you've all got your new year snogs sorted boys - don't all clamour at once, now." He puckers his lips and cackles.

Sirius snorts. "Wouldn't want to trespass on Evans' property, mate." He heaves a dramatic sigh, and then downs the remainder of his fire whiskey. The tilt of his head leaves his throat exposed and Remus finally lets himself look at him, tracing the sharpness of Sirius' jaw and the swell of his lips around the bottle neck. Remus looks away.

"I think I'm going to get another drink," He announces, getting to his feet and standing a little unsteadily as the alcohol goes to his head. He pauses on his way out of the room to swat affectionately at James' foot, outstretched in a feeble attempt at assault. "Anyone else want anything?"

"'Nother whiskey for me, mate." Peter grins from the hearth rug. "Maybe another one of those biscuit things your mum packed, what d'you call them?"

"Welsh cakes."

"Yeah, that's them."

Remus smiles and heads out to the kitchen. The Potters' cottage is small and pristine, terracotta tiles gleaming at him before he's even flicked the kitchen light switch. The grown up alcohol, James had announced on their arrival, is kept in an antique walnut cabinet in his father's study and strictly off limits, so for the purpose of their evening he and Sirius had acquired a crate of fire whiskey and stowed it in the pantry. There had been some trouble with keeping the Potters' house elf quiet about it, apparently, but Remus doesn't remember the specifics.

He's pulling a bottle from the crate when he hears footsteps. He sighs. "I asked, I said _anyone want anything,_ and only Pete-"

"A man can select his own drink." Remus turns to face the kitchen and finds Sirius resting his hip against the counter in a way he suspects is supposed to be suave, but could also be for basic support.

"All of the bottles look the same."

"Mm." Sirius doesn't say anything for a moment or two, and then pushes off the counter. The movement is entirely too elegant considering the alcohol in his system, but then Sirius doesn't have an inelegant bone in his body. "Not well versed in the art of alcohol selection, are we."

Remus quirks an eyebrow. "Well, not all of us were born with a wine-tasting silver spoon stuck up our arse."

Sirius is in front of him now, leaning into the wall, looking up at him through tousled hair and impossible lashes. "Do you know how fucking excruciating it is, sitting in there and not being able to touch you." He tilts closer, close enough for Remus to feel his breath on his neck, before spreading a hand flat on Remus' chest and pushing him back against the doorjamb. "I want," he starts, "can I?" 

"Sirius," he tries to say it like a warning but somewhere between point A and point B it turns into something that sounds more like a _yes,_ a  _please._ Sirius' name sits safe in his mouth. He nods, and then there are nimble fingers winding through his hair and pulling him down, and Remus feels all the air leave his lungs before Sirius breathes it back in.


End file.
